


Eat Your Heart Out

by Coileddragon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugging, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Guro, Kidnapping, Pain, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Restraints, Torture, Vomiting, Yandere, possessive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coileddragon/pseuds/Coileddragon
Summary: What had happened since you began to travel into the Outback? The ache in the back of your head most likely meant you’d been knocked out. You had a guide with you, you recall suddenly, but he seems to be nowhere in this little house. Part of you worries for him, but knows you should worry more about yourself.
Relationships: Roadhog | Mako Rutledge/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Eat Your Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've had sitting in my GDocs for a while, still unfinished. I sort of hope by sharing it I feel the urge TO finish it, as it was a very interesting idea that I wanted to pursue that just grew bigger than my initial plan! I hope you enjoy it, and please, Mind the tags. It's not for those with a weak stomach.

Your head throbs heavily as you finally come to. As you open your eyes, you shut them just as quickly, the bright natural light filtering in the window towards you far too vibrant for your aching head. Groaning, you try to remember what happened and try to roll over. It’s then you realize your arms are pulled to either side of the bed you’re laying in, tied to the posts.

You open your eyes again in panic, blinking and squinting against the brightness as you tug against your restraints. God, the sunlight is so bright, has it ever been  _ this  _ bright? As you squirm, you realize your legs are fastened in a similar manner, tugged apart and bound to the bedpost. You groggily lift your head, the small action making the world take a sudden jerk. The room you’re in slowly comes to focus, and to your relief, you note your clothing is on and untouched.

The room is hardly more than a shack, the wooden boards chipped with rays of sunlight streaming through the holes and lighting up the dust in the air. The bed you’re on is one of very few pieces of furniture; along with it is a rickety looking table and three equally unsteady looking chairs. Some of them have legs made out of other chairs, frankensteined into usable furniture. 

There’s an old stove in the corner, and by old you mean  _ old _ . It looks like it’s several centuries old, fueled by fire from the look of the door on the belly of the appliance. On it sits a few pieces of old looking metal pieces of cookware, and on the wall by it hangs a meat cleaver and other sharp looking kitchen items. 

As your eyes adjust to the brightness, you turn to look out the window. All you see is a yellow toned, flat expanse. You can’t even make out a tree, just yellowed stone and brown grass. You start to remember where you are.

Australia.

You’d been sent here by a branch of Peace activists, to try and make communications with the people here again. ‘Again’, only because others had been sent here to try to do just that without much success. One person didn’t even come back. You remember trying not to feel like those above you were simply trying to get rid of you by choosing you to be the next ambassador. Someone had to reach out to the Australian population after so many years of anarchy, right?

The incident with the omnium had left the people rather… Feral. And your association was trying to help reconnect the broken world again. A large undertaking, but one you’d felt would make a difference.

Except now, you were here, somewhere in Australia.

What had happened since you began to travel into the Outback? The ache in the back of your head most likely meant you’d been knocked out. You had a guide with you, you recall suddenly, but he seems to be nowhere in this little house. Part of you worries for him, but knows you should worry more about yourself.

The bed isn’t all that uncomfortable, but the middle is bent in, and as such it pulls you further into it as you struggle against the rope that is holding you there. Your wrists are already starting to chafe from your twisting and turning without any hint that the rope would give soon.

The door to the shack slams open suddenly and you jump, head jerking towards the noise. You feel the empty threat you were going to spew at your captor die in the back of your throat as the man - if he can even be described as that - walks in. He’s massive, easily looming several heads over you if you were standing face to face with him, and his face is covered with a dark mask that resembles the face of a pig. You can’t make out eyes past the glass lenses where they would be, but you can hear his hefty breaths as he comes in. His stomach is large, jutting out in front of him and donning a tattoo you can’t entirely make out. Mostly, because there’s reddish splatters on his skin, and on the massive, spiked hook that he’s wielding in his left hand. 

His masked face turns towards you, his silvery hair tied in a sprout of hair in between the straps of the mask as he grunts.

“You’re awake.” he simply states, his voice gravelly and deep. It sends a tremor of fear down your spine, and your mind starts to race with what he could want with you that requires you being bound and helpless.

“Who-who are you?” you stammer out, trying your best to sound less afraid than you actually are and failing spectacularly.

“Don’t matter.” 

The reply only makes you more nervous.

“I-I’m only here to- to try and reach…” Your mind fails you as you try to remember the city you were trying to get to, your tongue thick as you stumble over words. “Junk- Junkertown! Junkertown! I’m just- I’m trying to-”

You’re cut off by your own squeak as the man drops the metal hook to the ground by the table, the sound loud and startling.

“Don’t matter.” he repeats again.

You feel your throat start to tighten and hot tears prick the corner of your eyes as fear makes your heart hammer against your chest.

“Please let me go.” you ask in the meager whisper that your tight throat allows to slip out. 

He grunts, but you can’t infer what that means. You’re pretty sure it’s a ‘no’, though.

The man slides off the armor that he has on his shoulders, a mass that appears to be repurposed metal and tire rubber, complete with spikes. There’s a distinct tan to his skin that’s gone underneath the armor, leaving pale marks behind. He sighs and rolls his shoulders, then looks over at you. 

A cold shot of fear goes down your spine, your legs wanting to close. You can’t tell what expression he’s making under there, and that does more for your fear than being able to read any expression at all. You open your mouth but only a small choked noise comes out, rather than the words you wanted to, and he starts towards you.

Your heart is like a jackhammer, slamming against your ribs so hard you’re sure he can hear it. When he gets close you jerk your head away and look away, the only free movement you can make. Your breathing is getting difficult as you sob wetly.

He shushes you, not in a sarcastic or rough manner, rather a drawn out noise of soothing. It doesn’t really do anything for you, and you flinch when a massive hand comes down to grab your cheeks and turn your head towards him. You stare up at the dark glass of the mask's eyes as he thumbs away a streak of tears. 

You can smell him, this close. Sweat and tire rubber and gasoline, smoke and rubble and something sweet that you can’t place. His breathing is heavy, entire chest heaving as he takes slow inhalations and examines you.

“Pretty thing like you...,” he starts, his voice making a shiver run down your spine. “‘Not going anywhere.”

“Are you going to kill me?” you ask in the same quiet voice. You don’t know which answer you’d prefer to hear at this point.

He laughs, the action rolling through his whole body. It cuts out in a cough and he withdraws his hand to slam into his chest and cut it off. His mask tilts towards you.

“No. I don’t kill my things.” 

Part of you feels relief, but the unknown of what he plans to  _ do  _ with you quickly stamps out the feeling. 

His hand is on your face again, cradling it as he leans against the bed. The mattress creaks under the threat of his weight and your hands ball up as you want to push him away from you. The only sound is his breathing as he traces his massive hand down your neck. He fingers at the collar of your shirt and you swallow hard, waiting for the impending violation. Instead, he reaches for your upper arm and gives it a squeeze.

“Got meat on your bones.” he remarks. For a second, you wonder if you should be offended. Is he pointing out that you’re fat? Does that mean he won’t rape you? Wouldn’t he have noticed it sooner? But these questions fall short when he follows up his assessment with, “Good.”

He lets go of your arm and turns away from you and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You jerk your wrists around again, wincing at the raw and red skin that resulted. The knots were just as tight… And with him here, whoever  _ he  _ was, there wasn’t much chance of getting out. He was so big he took up most of the shack, you wouldn’t be able to just worm past him.

As he came back to you, you looked at the items in his hand. In one was a gas mask with vents on either side like his own mask just without the pig-like details, in the other was a small, yellow canister with no discernible label.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice stronger now but with a notable tremor. He doesn’t answer, placing the canister on the chair by the bed and taking the gas mask in both hands. 

You try to pull away, but he’s still able to easily capture your face in the mask and tighten the straps. Your shallow breaths quickly make the mask moist and uncomfortable, not used to wearing something like this. Then, he holds your head steady with one hand and grabs the mystery conister with the other. Your eyes go wide and you shake your head. He was going to give you something, and you’d have no choice but to breath it in.

He has a firm grip on your head though, and clicks the canister into one of the vents of the mask and squeezes it. You taste and smell the sweet musk that you couldn’t identify off the man earlier and quickly hold your breath. You don’t last very long, and soon enough you give in to the ache in your lungs and have to breath, beads of sweat forming on your brow. 

He makes a satisfied noise as you take in whatever gas he fed into the mask. The sweet and nameless flavor soon takes over everything else, your mind starting to numb and buzz pleasantly. Part of you is aware you’re being drugged, that your muscles are going slack and that this is anything but good, but the feeling is a relief to the panic and anxiety you’ve been feeling and it’s hard to deny it.

Once he’s sure you’ve inhaled all of it, he tosses the canister aside and undoes the mask. Your head falls back on the pillow and it’s like laying in a cloud. You just want your body to keep sinking into the mattress, to sink to the floor, and into the earth itself, to be wrapped up in this fuzzy warm feeling forever. The rusted tin ceiling of the shack is suddenly a thousand times more interesting, the reddish patterns inching along across your eyes.

You’re pulled back to slight awareness by a tight tugging on your arm. You frown almost comically, unaware of how exaggerated your expressions are as you look at your captor. He’s tying a wide cut of rubber around your upper arm, just below your shoulder. It’s tight, your fingers quickly becoming cold and numb from the sudden lack of blood flow. You want to ask what he’s doing, but the blubber of words that comes out instead makes you laugh. You can’t even seem to stop laughing, even as he caresses your cheek with his dirty hands again.

You see the cleaver come up, but it doesn’t register right away, still giggling about your own loss of words. And then he slams it into your arm, just below the tourniquet. The pain rips through the high and you scream, the pain choking your throat and cutting it off. The fuzz in your head is still there, still oppressive, but not enough to silence the agony of the metal hacking away at your flesh.

You watch in dazed terror as blood pools onto the mattress, splattering your face and his body since the first cut wasn’t enough to sever it. No words can escape your mouth as he tugs the weapon out of the bone he struck and he slams it in again. Your scream rips through you as bone is severed and more hot blood sprays onto you. This time, you can’t even stay conscious.


End file.
